A Soldier's Death
by Feichin LeFay
Summary: Sometimes, things don't go as expected, and the maker is cruel in leaving you be when you knew you should've been gone. Sometimes, you'll have to arrange the meeting yourself. (Suicide, shouen-ai undertones)


He lived... but how? He questioned as he gazed upon his gauze-draped hands and bandage-bound torso... Treize started to laugh ruefully as he gazed upon his living, but wounded body.  
  
There really is no god – The blonde smiled in a sad, bitter fashion as he gazed upon the impossibly white room, clean as a summer sky, and silent as the grave. The frozen stars of deep space shined eternally, impassively, as if to mock the futile passages of man and machine.  
  
The general shook his head as he examined the ward for life – and found that only he lived in this infirmary where pills and needles determined the existence of life. His crystalline sapphire orbs slipped closed as he noted the dimness of the lights... 'Nighttime' as such a period in space could be called; he chuckled in wry amusement before falling into a soul-aching sigh.  
  
Why did he live...? Why didn't he die in righteous battle against Wufei? He was a general, a soldier of the old craft – to live in pacifism... is impossible – intolerable to the spirit of the warrior within his soul... the Aristocrat can find content in such a thing, but the restless soldier would more likely to found his inner-peace within a corpse.  
  
Treize Khushrenada brushed his bandage-tied hands through the dark honey hair, as again he stared out to those unblinking stars, and to the fragments there were once Leos and Virgos, mechanical dolls and piloted machines – He was right after all – no doll, no matter how advanced – could defeat the will of man, the courage, the desperation and rage of a man that drives them to the most impossible of tasks. Every name seemed engraved into the unchanging blackness of infinity, into heart, mind, soul – every man, every woman, every soldier, warrior, defender, and fighter....  
  
If only to die as a soldier! The young duke lamented to himself as he felt the tray that was propped against his cot. A rogue, but lazy grin appeared as he felt the glass vial, and the needles.  
  
I should informed Major Larkspur that Private Fawkes should be disciplined for allowing a patient to medicate himself... The former commander of Oz paused as he realized he was thinking like a commander again as he rolled his eyes. Old habits never seemed to die...  
  
Neither does the old soldiers... the inner voice chimed. The blonde rolled up the sleeve of his hospital robe; then with practiced ease, he flipped off the corked stopper – and watched with detached interest as it flung itself against the opposite wall – the infirmary was permanently locked into One-G Force for the ease of doctors and quicker recovery of the patients. Good, it was just what Treize needed – it would be rather difficult to administer his Morphine in Zero-G.  
  
"Old Soldiers never dies... just fade away...." He murmured as he slowly filled the hypothermic with the powerful sedative, and carefully sat it against a vein. "Ah!" Treize bit his lip as a small amount of blood rushed to the surface as the clear liquid drained into his body.  
  
The Aryan man worked quickly to fill it again before the drug starts to take affect. Injection after injection, Treize grunted as he had finally emptied the vial into his system. Sensing that it was complete, the aristocrat laid back down on the bed, and took the notebook in his hands – thought injured as they are; the broad, firm hands were still able to hold the sleek astrink pen; with only a moment's pause, he started to scribble out a letter, as he let his mind travel away from the words on the paper.  
  
The banners were streaming in the harsh November wind, every man stood in file on either side of the solemn display. He remembered how the russet leaves played and danced around them as the cloth draped boxes were drawn to the cemetery by strong and sturdy Clydesdales, their dark hair gleamed under the evening light, as their feathery manes shook with each slow, heavy clump upon the cobble stone.  
  
This was followed by another coffin-bearing cart, drawn by two more horses – as a mournful cry fell from the bugle's brassy mouth – all else was silent. Then a small sound, which surged louder and louder with each wave of motion shattered the quiet of death. A clap of heels slapping cobblestone as they clicked together, all the soldiers, uniformed in war or dress form reached their right arm far to the side and then slapped their hands against their heart for a moment – before being drawn into a salute. Oz Calvary Corps, to Honor the heart of the soldier, to honor their sacrifice. Treize cleared his throat silently; his voice rang with dignity of a dethroned monarch as he recited the names by heart, spoke those words of consolations – of restrained mourning, then one by one the voices of regulars and officers alike sung an ancient poem that has been past on through the years from war to war, soldier to soldier, the hollowed words became a grand chorus that shook the air and carried by the wind to the city below – if those restless, unknowing citizens took time to listen.  
  
"In Flanders field where the poppies blows..."  
  
The General's mind started to wondered again, until he saw the impossible dark, slanted eyes of a Chinese youth, sword readied, his face was like a fallen angel – twisted with an anger at the injustice that bred so profusely in battle, distraught at the almost futile quest to find his true path upon the twisted political intrigues and fickle emotions of the people that do not know the terror of war.  
  
A flash of silver – and a stinging clash of steel on steel – he had passion, so much youthful naivety of right and wrong, and such a thirst to prove himself... The blonde smiled, he had to give Chang Wufei that. Nevertheless, passion was not enough to win in a duel – passion, emotions – they have to tempered, and channeled, not allowed to explode all at once...  
  
Laughter erupted from his lips as he thought about the intriguing young man – The young pilot learned so much since they first crossed blades, Treize winced slightly as he felt the first pangs of over dosage. The young man did meld the fire in his soul... but still let it burned brightly...  
  
"In a way, I do envy you..." The rich tenor spoke to no one as he groaned. If there is some way I go through this again... Morphine is not the way to do it.... The military tactician growled darkly as he attempted to ignore the difficulty of drawing breath, as his pupils dilated into pinpricks.  
  
Wufei... Cried... why? A loss of an equal? Treize pondered. Or perhaps a loss of self? A rueful smile appeared over the paling lips, Warriors shed tears over the strangest of things....  
  
An image of his right-hand woman appeared in his mind, her soft flowing auburn hair, those gentle door-like eyes, then the fierce scowl and braided buns... Une... my dear lady... you are one again.... A genuine grin replaced the bitter smile as he took comfort in knowing his most trusted friend and lover of the mind was herself again.  
  
Millardo... We'll meet again – be it heaven, hell, or banner's green, The dying man closed his lapis lazuli eyes as he pictured the platinum blonde locks framing the robin egg orbs, the familiar expression of a sort of mischievous understanding locked into a single quirk of the lips. If there is place here-after, the Aryan was certain he'll be in the same lands as his comrade-turned-foe.  
  
"Yes... she... lives... so... did earth..." Misted eyes slid open; his voice was barely a hoarse whisper. "checkmate."  
  
Footsteps ranged in the hallway, as the hiss of the vaccum-sealed doors drew the gasping, and nearly hallucinating general to reality.  
  
Don't... don't... save me! This is not my... world, war is dead... we... don't need death... or me like me... no... need for lions – let her rule unchallenged... an era of unicorns instead... of lions.  
  
"General Khushrenada!" "Treize!" The voices – a masculine bass and a womanly alto screeched as the clack of footfalls quickened into a panicked rush.  
  
He felt the last burst of air arresting itself from his nerve-damaged lungs, the white room started to turn grey and then black. An enigmatic smirk started to form.  
  
"Fawkes! Get a resuscitation mask here, now!" Une shouted as she grabbed the wounded blonde.  
  
"No..." Treize shivered as his hold onto the note loosened. With that, those eyes that once shown with both cunning and gentility shut themselves forever.  
  
Written upon the lined paper were these words: I am a Soldier, and will die a Soldier – my death is for the world, as I vowed when I became an officer – my life for peace, my life for the girl's pacifism. I, who made war and fought with my men, do not belong, and will only hinder her noble plans. Do not cry, My Lady Une, for you will see what I mean soon enough – I apologize for making you wept over me – please, do not cry. My only wish is that you let me die in the last and Great War of the era -- to be dead in full military honor, if you see the boy Wufei...  
  
Une gestured for the medic to leave as she searched the rest of the notepad, only to realize that whatever her lord was to say to the him – had died along with the great general.

About the Zechs' remark, by the Eve War ends, I believe most people assume that Milliardo died.


End file.
